Pop My Cherry, Would You?

I could lie and say the first time I was twenty-nine. Late bloomer. Truth is, however, my first time I was thirteen.

It went like this: Boobs, period, pimples, masturbation, smut. Wait.

Boobs, period, pimples, Harold Robbins, masturbation, boy named Dale, smut.

That's how it went. I hit puberty. Started reading novels by Harold Robbins (Goodbye Janette, Dreams Die First, The Betsy; god, there were tons of them) and then started to masturbate bout the time I developed a four-year-long crush on a boy named Dale. He took me into a barn once, led me up to a loft, put his hand inside my underwear and touched my cunt lips with one finger and then pulled it out and lifted it to his nose, inhaled me off his finger. He said, "Thank you."

Same year, I began to write stories, often rip-offs of something I'd read. The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton or Salem's Lot by Stephen King. I wrote with pencil in long hand on yards of continuous-feed computer paper my father allotted me in weekly increments. Many of these stories survive today, except the smut, which my step mom confiscated one afternoon from a desk in my bedroom and then gave to my father, who destroyed all of it.

Weird thing about my father: He censored/controlled everything in my life: movies, music, clothing, friends, the words I wrote in long-hand on continuous-feed paper. He never censored, confiscated, or destroyed books though. I could read what I wanted and did. Although my early attempts at smut a.k.a. erotica no longer exist, I assure you they were hybrids, Harold Robbins meets Stephen King kind of stuff. Blood, guts, and coming.

Toward the end of high school, when I could hide stuff at my best friend Christine's house, I began to write erotica again, over-the-top sentimental stuff. Examples of these stories survive. For instance, a story dedicated to John Taylor of Duran Duran called "Sunshine Boy" I wrote in red ink on wide-rule notebook paper. (Note grammar, punctuation, and spelling errors in the following excerpt haven't been corrected in order to preserve authenticity.)

She asked him if she could bum a cigarette and felt her fingers trembling. John said "Yes" in his sexy British accent that sent shivers over her whole body. His gorgeous eyes didn't even blink, making her blush. A fire she felt all over her body! Fire spread all over her body, that's right! Lerah hadn't wanted someone so much before . . . she didn't know what to do. What should she do?! Maybe go crazy with passion for her dream man, John Taylor!

Two pages later . . .

John kissed all over her shaking, shivering body. She was shy, she was trembling hard in his arms as his hands squeezed her boobs and then touched her face with his hands. He kissed her over and over again until she couldn't stand it anymore!

"Please, fuck me, please John!" Lerah screamed hard.

He didn't use words. Not John. He got on top of her and put it inside her. He was inside her, it only hurt for a minute. And then she felt in total ecstasey!

*****

If you asked a lesbian I met at a graduate school party four years ago she'd say I'm an "over sexualized" person. I prefer sexual, as in a sexual being, an artist/writer/woman interested in, intrigued and inspired by human sexuality. I lost my virginity when I was five days shy of my eighteenth birthday. I spent six years disrobing for money in a gentleman's club. I've never been sexually molested or raped. My lovers have been of both genders, mostly male but a few female. In 1996, I sold my first piece of smut to Playgirl Magazine. I mentioned it before. Remember "I'd Marry Fox Mulder This Second?"

"Private Investigation," my first erotica sale, was my version of what happened when Fox Mulder decided to screw his partner, Dana Scully. They did it in an abandoned building on a cruddy old mattress, scene of a brutal crime. Limbs wound together like twine, lips bruised by kisses.

Trust me. It wasn't a good story. The story behind the story is actually better. During the spring of 1996, a friend of mine who used to live down the street from me and worked with me at the gentleman's club, drove up the street to my house one afternoon and then banged on my door.

When I let her in, Adena held a Playgirl Magazine in my face.

"OK," I said. "What?"

"Kirk is in this magazine," she said. "Kirk!"

I had to think a minute. "Oh, you mean the guy you used to sleep with?"

Adena nodded then flipped the magazine open to the centerfold. There was Kirk. Not my type, truth be told. He was the consummate Playgirl Magazine Romance Novel looking guy. Beefed up and tan, frosted hair and shaved chest. I took the magazine from Adena and flipped back to the table of contents.

"Does this magazine publish stories, you know like fiction?"

Adena shrugged. "I don't know. Who cares?"

I thumbed through the magazine and found it: Reader's Fantasy Forum. "Send us your best fantasies . . . Fantasy of the month receives one hundred dollars."

I looked at Adena, thinking. "Can I borrow this over night?"

Adena smiled. "Why?"

"I'm going to write a story." I glanced through the examples. "I think I can do this."

Adena shrugged. "Fine. But I want it back tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah." I pushed her toward the door. "See you later, tomorrow. Yeah, yeah. Bye."

I shut the door behind her and then went to my computer. Sitting at my desk I read each "fantasy" twice. I studied format, vocabulary, premise. I conjured Mulder and Scully. I began to type. I kept thinking, "I can do this," until eventually I thought, "I can do this better." I typed and typed and typed. Four hours later I had a story. "Private Investigation." Complete with cock and cunt and whole lot of moaning and groaning and coming.

Not a great story. Not even especially good. But Playgirl Magazine bought it in the summer of 1996 and featured it as the "Fantasy of the Month." Within the next year, I sold nine more stories to Playgirl Magazine. Yeah, forever grateful. Because of my success with Playgirl Magazine, I became more confident about my writing. I also got serious about reading and writing as much erotic fiction as possible, the best erotica I could get my hands on.

Someday, I'll tell you about a story that changed how and why I write erotic fiction forever, something from the Herotica series called "Make Me" by Sonja Kindley. Until then, let me hear your first time accounts. How old were you when you write your first piece of smut/erotica? What was it about? Does it survive today? Care to share an excerpt?

Peace,

Alana